Child's Play
by niennavalier
Summary: Every fairy tale hero is meant to have their perfect villain, are they not? Perhaps Sherlock has had his from the very start and never known it.
1. Chapter 1

**So I have honestly no clue where this idea came from anymore, but it was actually pretty fun to write. Now, I do know that all of the characters are different ages and probably wouldn't have gone to school together, but I ended up changing that for the purposes of this story. As such, there are a few references to other characters, though I'm not sure how well those come across. Also, I did try to keep the Americanisms to a minimum, but I apologize if some slipped through, as my knowledge of British customs and speech is basically limited to what I remember from the show. Anyways, reviews would be much loved!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of its characters.**

* * *

><p>Chapter 1: A Study In Grape Juice<p>

"Alright, who did it?" came the not-yet-matured voice, full of a bold confidence any other at this age would have never dared use. But this boy, tall and lanky despite his young years, was anything but ordinary, and he knew it well, loved to flaunt it. "Who took my grape juice?" At the resounding silence which met his question, the boy simply scoffed. "Please, don't embarrass yourself and just admit it. I will find you."

Dozens of pairs of eyes watched him, a mixture of awe and annoyance, but none spoke a word, uttered even a sound. They'd all seen him pull this stunt many times before, scanning the crowd with sparkling, colorful eyes and somehow telling the life story of everyone present within a matter of mere minutes, understanding it better than even they did themselves. He did this then, taking in all, missing no detail, regardless of how minute. The thin hairs sticking to the cotton clothes of many, all alike in their ownership of pets. Dogs more often than cats, and an even blend of large and small breeds. The straight-backed and disciplined posture of once boy, hailing surely from a military family. Likely determined to join himself in the future. Dark and watchful eyes of an older brother trying to hide their concern for the younger boy beneath the insults and derisions stemming from an unnatural form of sibling rivalry. Untucked shirt hems, gelled-back hair, tapping fingers, they all told him the secret stories of each and every person present, whether they could see it or not.

"Ah, how simple. Hardly even a challenge." He turned with an artful flourish , striding with natural arrogance to one boy picked seemingly at random from the masses. "All the signs are obvious, and you didn't even bother to try and hide them."

"Aww, Sherlock…" the boy whined, apparently innocent in everyone's eyes. Well, almost everyone. "Why me? You couldn'a known."

"Couldn't _have _known," he corrected the thief automatically.

"What?"

"It's couldn't have, not couldn'a."

"I don't care!" the other boy shouted, twisting to slam a hand down on the table. "I didn't do it, and you can't know if I did!"

"How naïve," the young Sherlock Holmes chided, sharp eyes glinting almost madly with a cold, near inhuman, glee. "When I first began, you were the only one to match eye contact with me the entire time. Overconfidence? Surely. A challenge? Most definitely, meaning you don't believe my abilities are real, but it's hardly my concern whether you are too ignorant to recognize true genius. The water drops on your jeans, when you have nothing cold packed nor a drink anywhere in the vicinity. Where might they have come from? Now, the hand shoved in your coat pocket. It's closest to the table yet you slapped your other hand down, despite the awkward contortion it took for you to do so while continuing to face me. Why might you do this? Unless, of course, you're trying to hide something in that conspicuously bulging pocket. Your hand is obviously not that large, judging by the one still on the table, so it could only be," the future consulting detective reached forward, plucking a small bottle from the other boy's pocket, "my grape juice."

The other boy crossed his arms, a pout forming. "Fine, you win."

"Oh, when will you lot learn? I'll always win in the end," said Sherlock plainly, as if stating a known and proven fact, before returning to wherever he'd come from, long coat billowing out behind him in the chill breeze.

However, in his marching away, Sherlock Holmes never did see the features of one other boy seated only a few people away from the thief. Pale, almost white, skin and cold, dark eyes, just as intelligent and clever as the detective's. For many minutes after, this boy still continued to observe his equal, never moving from where he sat, calculating, plotting, seeking out any and all flaws, sorting them away to be well exploited sometime in the future. After all, playing these games with the normal children could get so boring, but this one here, he might be a bit more fun. Perhaps this might be a challenge for even both of them, a wonderful little game where only one could reign victorious in the end. And besides, didn't every hero need their fairy tale villain?

So then, in that case, didn't Sherlock Holmes need Jim Moriarty?


	2. Chapter 2

**So this is chapter 2 in these stories, but I just want to mention that it actually takes place a little before the first chapter and is told more from Moriarty's POV. Aside from that note, I haven't got much to say except to please review and that I'm currently not sure whether I'll continue adding to this as I don't have another planned out. It really depends if this is received well, I guess. Anyways, disclaimer's still the same cause I don't own anything yet.**

* * *

><p>Chapter 2: Playing a Great Game<p>

Jim Moriarty abhorred the other children. They were all so stupid, playing their simple little games on the playground. Laughing, making fools of themselves to try and win at such insignificant contests. All so very _normal_. So _boring._ This whole being on the side of the angels, what good was it? Now, the side of the devil: that was much more fun. But, everyday jokes would not do. Of course not. He needed something bigger, more interesting, dramatic, grand. Except, where to start?

"Are you James Moriarty?" The said boy turned to face another about his age and height before inwardly rolling his eyes. _Just as ordinary as the rest._

"Why do you care?"

"Because," the boy dropped his voice conspiratorially. "I have an idea I think you might like."

"Which is?"

"I wanna steal something."

"Nope," Jim dismissed quickly, without much thought, "I don't do petty theft." He began to walk off, more content with his own company than that of these inferior creatures.

"But I didn't finish!" the other cried out. "It's Sherlock Holmes!"

The name stopped young Jim in his tracks. Obviously he'd heard of the boy; no one could say they hadn't, and no more could say they liked him either. He didn't seem to have any friends at all, instead possessing an inordinate talent of telling people their own life story with a single cursory glance. Reportedly some sort of genius on top of that and seemingly quite a bit like Jim in some aspects. Now there was someone who might be worth playing with. "What about Sherlock Holmes?"

"I wanna—" the boy abruptly went silent, and soon enough, Jim could hear the approaching footfalls from his place up ahead. "Let's go somewhere else. I think that kid's watching us." Deserting the original meeting place, the soon-to-be criminal mastermind shot a subtle glance backward, easily finding the cause for his client's concern. Another boy, surely a handful of years older with dark hair and deep brown eyes watched the pair intently, suspiciously, arms crossed and now removed from the football game he had been playing mere moments ago. Even Jim didn't have the slightest clue who he might be; names of those he didn't associate with were inconsequential anyway. Nevertheless, his sense of justice was truly adorable, but utterly useless, for he would never be able to trace any of this, or anything in the future for that matter, back to Jim, who offered an overly innocent, purposefully maddening smile before moving on.

Reaching a shady and secluded area, the boy began to talk again, Jim listening with an interest he carefully veiled. "I wanna steal from Sherlock Holmes. Thinks he's so bloody smart and all, reading all of us like he knows our lives better than we do, but I don't think it's real." A hint of malice shone in those eyes; that was good, at least. "I wanna test him and prove he's not so clever 'cause he won't be able to find me and figure out what I did."

"And you asked my help for what, exactly?"

"Help me set it up so Sherlock won't see anything."

Jim turned the idea over in his head. Yes, he could easily distract this Sherlock Holmes; scaring, or rather, persuading, the other children into creating a diversion wouldn't be at all difficult, simple and ordinary beings as they were. True, this was not quite the grand scheme so hoped for, but perhaps this was the start of something much bigger, something that might even take years to unfold in its entirety, so perhaps it would be alright to wait just a little longer for the grandeur. And besides, he could see this new opponent in action, judge if he truly was a worthy adversary, keeping himself safely out of trouble all the while. Then, there was really no way to lose. "Alright, you have a deal." The conspirators shook hands before one boy left, leaving the young mastermind on his own, a mad smile crossing his features as a name, a title, appeared in his mind.

Jim Moriarty: Consulting Criminal.

Oh, he could definitely get used to the sound of that.


End file.
